The Lair
by this is only a test
Summary: "Steve didn't understand why Momma stayed in the cold, dark room all the time." Oneshot.


Disclaimer: I don't own.

AN: I must've been on a real depressive kick at some point. This and the last piece I posted are dark, dark, dark... BTW, thanks much for the reviews on other stories. I promise to get to you all individually in review replies eventually, but thanks so, so much. Means a lot. :)

Steve didn't understand why Momma stayed in the cold, dark room all the time. She was a beautiful lady, just like one out of a fairy tale. Her hair was satin and flowed past her waist in waves. But unlike the queens and damsels, she never smiled. Not once. She never laughed either. All she did was stay in that cold, dark room for hours on end, staring at the blank, white wall.

Sometimes he'd watch her; he'd stand innocently in the doorway and observe her, hoping to God Daddy wouldn't catch him. His old man didn't like it when he dared set foot near her room, and watching her like he did would surely earn him a spanking. That didn't stop Steve, though. All he wanted was to spend time with her, and watching her was the only time he ever got. He didn't understand. She was his mother, but Dad didn't even want him to look at her.

One day, when Dad was gone, Steve went and laid down beside her on the bed. It must've been by a miracle or a work or God that day, because she shifted her gaze from the wall. She even turned around to face him, her vivid green eyes staring at him pleadingly. She pulled him close to her and cried. That was the only time he'd ever seen her cry, the only time he'd ever seen an emotion out of her at all. He figured it must have been his fault she was sobbing so hard. His sister, Molly, was right. She hadn't been happy since the day he was born, and she never would be happy. Dad was right, too—he should've never gone near that room. After all, it was his fault she stayed in there all the time.

At school some years later, his assignment was to write about his mother for the upcoming Mother's Day program. He wrote about the only thing he'd ever seen her do: "My mom stays in a cold, dark room all day. She never comes out and she never talks to me." His teacher looked at him in disbelief and promptly reprimanded him. "What an awful thing to write about your mother. Have you no respect for her?" she said. He firmly denied her accusations of calling him liar several times. She sent him principal's office where they called his dad, who of course, was furious. If his teacher only knew how much he wished he was lying. He hated his life, and he hated his parents. Here he was, six years old, with a mom who lived in a cave and a dad determined to keep her there. Some parents they were.

Years passed—Steve was now almost ten. His mother didn't look so pretty anymore. She'd turned from a beautiful princess to an ugly witch. But one thing stayed the same; day in and day out, she still stayed in that cold, dark room, staring blankly at the now off white wall. He didn't even want to go near her anymore—not even just to watch her. In fact, he started to tell his friends he didn't have a mom or that she was dead.

On his tenth birthday, Mrs. Curtis so graciously threw him a birthday party. It turned out to be the best day of his life. He loved being at the Curtises'. Sure, he was best friends with Soda, but if he had to be honest, that wasn't the only reason he liked being over there so much. When he was there, he felt like he was part of a family—a family that loved him and cared about him. Mr. Curtis wouldn't even think of beating one of his son's black and blue like his dad did sometimes, and Mrs. Curtis was the opposite of his mother in every way. She smiled, she laughed, and she made the best chocolate cake out of anyone in the whole world. His mom just stared at a wall all day. To him, Mr. and Mrs. Curtis seemed like the best parents a child could ever ask for.

Steve didn't want to go home that night-hell, if he could live with the Curtises', he would-but soon it came time for him to go. Mr. Curtis dropped him off; Steve waved back at him to let him know he'd gotten inside before shutting the door. When he got inside, Molly was sitting on the couch sobbing uncontrollably. He rolled his eyes and sneered at her. She was probably crying buckets over Richard, that dumb boyfriend of hers. Dad wasn't home, but that didn't shock him in the slightest; he knew exactly where his old man was, and that was at a local bar, drowning himself in a bottle or two of whiskey.

He took off for his room pretty quickly. Dad would eventually come home drunk, and Steve knew he'd better not stay up and risk looking at him the wrong way. Besides, he didn't want to be a part of Molly's break-up cryfest. Before his reached his door, he paused at his mother's room impulsively. For the first time in four years, he was debating opening the door to her lair. Maybe she'd bother to say two words to him, a simple Happy Birthday perhaps. It was a hope anyway. He hesitantly turned the knob, almost chickening out several times. Finally, he couldn't take the anticipation any longer and thrust the door open with all his might. He shut his eyes the second he heard the door swing open, having second thoughts about this impulsive decision. Eventually he took a deep breath and gulped back a bunch of air.

When he opened his eyes, the air caught in the back of his throat. He gasped, trying to breathe, but the shock was too much. He couldn't believe the sight in front of him, and he wished he'd have just gone straight to his room. There was blood splattered all over the bedspread and the wall—all over her body, too.

Everything came up-the cake, the chicken, every last delicacy Mrs. Curtis had made for him was now on the floor and dripping down his chin. He tried to look at her, but his head kept jerking away instinctively. Finally he forced himself to look. He noticed the blood still gushing out of her head, and another wave of nausea crashed over him. All his energy and strength collapsed instantaneously, his knees buckling and dragging him to the floor like a ton of lead. His vision faded and all went black.

He lost track of time after that; he didn't remember Molly coming in and cleaning him up. All he remembered was waking up latched to his sister, sobbing as hard as his body would allow him to. He glanced over her shoulder at their dead mother's body still sprawled on the stained red sheets.

The gun was still in her hand.


End file.
